


miles to go, before I sleep

by MonsterParade



Category: Fran Bow (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, drabble request by a friend, yo here's a rare and totally platonic comfort fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterParade/pseuds/MonsterParade
Summary: A late-night grounding sesh after a nightmare. (And when did Itward get a phone...?)





	miles to go, before I sleep

**Author's Note:**

> 'Cha boy, back at it again with the Fran Bow. I occasionally take drabble requests for fanfiction, so feel free to hmu on the tumblr dot com at bardofmyheart! Pls enjoy.

A cold sheen of sweat, and blankets that are too hot to stay underneath. …You’ve had that nightmare again. 

In the dead blackness of your bedroom, it looks too much like the dream, the floor only so much dark, shifting water beneath your bed, freezing and abyssal and full of _things_.  
  
Your only lamp is across the room. Across the floor.   
  
You stay in bed.  
  
Silly, perhaps, for a grown adult, but you live alone in this house, and so the solitude that leaves you alone in this particular incidence also allows you to be just as immature as you want, while you recover yourself.  
  
There’s no black, thrashing ocean to fight through, now. No strange and horrible deep-sea creatures leering, with their dislocated jaws and too many tiny teeth. You just have to breathe. You can’t breathe.  
  
In the dark, you fumble for your phone. You have the number down by heart at this point.  
  
Tapping the screen to light and life, you first shine it down at the floor, confirming briefly that yes, it is indeed still ratty carpet, and then you swipe out a quick pattern of numbers before you have a chance to try to talk yourself out of it. There’s no way the person you’re calling will have been asleep, anyway.  
  
He picks up on the second ring.  
  
“Hello? Itward speaking,” you hear crackle through the phone, and the distortion that always accompanies these phone calls is somehow more soothing right now than it is disconcerting.  
  
“Hey, Itward. Uh, it’s Reader,” you reply, pleased with the steadiness of your voice over the line. There’s barely a hitch. “Before you say it, I _know_ it’s late and I _know_ living humans need sleep. But just…can you come over?”  
  
There’s a long silence from the other end of the phone, during which you consider explaining yourself a little further- before Itward interrupts you.  
  
“The ocean? The fish again?” he asks gently, and you nod slowly, not remembering that he can’t see you until he’s speaking again. You hear a soft rustle over his words. “I’m on my way. Can you unlock your window?”  
  
“…Can’t touch the floor right now.”  
  
“I see. Alright, I’ll try a different route, but try not to be startled, dear.”  
  
You don’t get any chance to ask what that route is before the line goes dead, and there’s a strange throbbing hum in the room.  
  
You hear a sharp clack as your bedframe jolts, and the hiss of a stifled curse beneath it–  
  
“Are you _actually_ under my bed? Are you okay?”  
  
Itward, dressed to the nines as ever (you’re not convinced he actually has any other outfits), shambles out from the vortex he’s created under your bed with one hand on his temple, the other clutching the brim of his hat, and sends you a flash of teeth.  
  
“Quite alright darling, yes, a little bump in transit, that’s all,” he assures you, and invites himself up into your bed with familiar ease, settling into the space you scootch over to make for him. His eyes have a cat-like shine in the dark. It’s eerie, but you’re used to it.  
  
The two of you sit in silence for a minute or two, close but not quite touching.  
  
Eventually, Itward speaks, and it’s quiet and soothing, a practiced calm from untold ages of the existence that he leads, “May I have your hand, Reader?”  
  
You take his outstretched bony fingers in your own without hesitation, and instantly feel the edge of panic begin to lessen, just a little. His presence is familiar here, and grounding.  
  
He pretends to take a breath.  
  
“In with me now…and out through your mouth, my dear,” His ribcage swells needlessly as he guides your breathing, the air inside it ever as dead as he is, but you appreciate it nonetheless, slowing your heart as he chatters to you.   
  
“There, now. Your faithful friend is here! We are far from the ocean, together, and you’re perfectly dry, and perfectly safe.” he croons. You would actually consider yourself just a little damp, from the uncomfortable chill of sweat under your pajamas, but you’re too tired to bother to do anything but let him lead you down. You squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.  
  
“…Stay with me? Just, just until sunrise.”  
  
“Darling, nothing could get me to leave. Go back to sleep now. I will guide your dreams.”  
  
  
And he does. And you sleep.


End file.
